


If I Had You

by orphan_account, snogandagrope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Demisexuality, Disney Villain Mary Morstan, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gay Character, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Hate Speech, Love Triangles, M/M, Masturbation, Post Reichenbach, Unrealistic Sex, demisexual!John, messy breakups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't surprised when he's returned from the dead and John has moved on - just slightly heartbroken. But John isn't playing fair, letting (no, making) Sherlock live with him and Mary. And Mary... Well, Mary isn't going to give John up without a fight, and can you blame her? Too bad Sherlock's sick of fighting. Rated for later chapters, written for twofacedpsycho on deviantART and tumblr. (She happens to be doing illustrations for the fic 'Something Wicked'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ab2fsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/gifts).



            Sherlock stood outside of the nice, unassuming, unsuspecting townhouse and tried to keep himself from entering cardiac arrest. He wasn’t even sure if he should be here but, in the end, he was an incredibly selfish man and whether or not he _should_ be there bore no relevancy to the fact that he simply had to be. So it stood to reason that Sherlock was frustrated with himself for hesitating just in front of the steps leading into that nice, unassuming, unsuspecting townhouse. Sherlock was many things, but ‘hesitant’ was not one of the many attributes on the list. His mind was usually so far ahead that decisions were made before the ultimatum was ever given. Now he stared at the (perhaps not quite as much as he’d earlier thought but still) nice, (ominous might be a better word but it’s been a long time since he’s needed an extended vocabulary) unassuming, (this place is evil, drawing him in this way) unsuspecting townhouse, one foot just above the bottom stair.

            Sherlock put the foot back down so it stood next to its counterpart, turned on his heels and stomped across the street, face flushing crimson. John would have laughed at this hysterically out-of-character moment, but that was the whole problem. John was the whole problem, the best problem, the hardest problem, the final problem. God, why hadn’t he seen it sooner?

            Sherlock’s hair had grown longer and now his curls obscured his eyes, like an overly emotional teenager. He flung his hair out of the way to better grimace at the façade of the house: _Boring, utterly boring_ , was all he was able to make out of it. White with a painted brown wooden door. An old fashioned chimney decorated the top, only just visible above the peaks of the roof. It looked…weird. Too right, too perfect. Too much like what John should have wanted, if John was anybody else but Doctor John Watson, Captain Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

            ‘Boring’ was what Sherlock first expected upon meeting John. He was only looking for a flatmate because Mycroft had convinced mummy to cut Sherlock off. Sherlock neither knew nor cared what his reasons were. He’d struggle through having a flatmate and scaring him off, and hopefully that would show Mycroft how ridiculous it was to expect Sherlock to actually live with another person. But instead of being insulted when Sherlock deduced him, John was amused, amazed, and even seemed flattered by Sherlock’s attention – something no one had ever been before. Sherlock realized he was running around in circles around himself and acting like a schoolboy with a crush on an older, unattainable student. He felt his heart flutter like it hadn’t in years when John enquired as to Sherlock’s romantic interests. He knew it was all for naught, because he knew that while John was very defendant of his heterosexuality, Sherlock himself was absolutely smitten. He waited for his infatuation to die away, throwing himself onto the puzzle that was Moriarty and perseverating on the visage of The Woman, but nothing moved his affections from John. But now, how would John react? He’d heard John begging him to come back, but that didn’t mean that in the year and a half (his initial plan had taken him three years, but he didn’t eat or sleep and John’s words echoed in his head) he’d been gone, John hadn’t moved on. Because move, at least, he did.

            Without realising Sherlock had been gravitating toward that front step; the sudden opening of the door had him gasping for breath.

            John stood, outlined by the light from the inside, eyebrow arched. ‘Are you going to come in, or would you prefer to continue muttering to yourself like some sort of nutter?’

            Sherlock didn’t need telling twice; he threw himself up the stairs and nearly launched himself at John, before thinking better. John huffed at Sherlock’s speed, stepping back to allow him in and shut the door. Sherlock took in the surroundings with an immense sense of sensory overload: wooden floors, bright lights, a piano in the corner. Someone in the kitchen was baking. Sherlock could hear high heels clanking on the linoleum as the person – presumably female – made her way to where John and Sherlock were standing. It shouldn’t surprise Sherlock anymore, but John holds his gaze, smiling fondly as the woman _clack clack clack_ ’s down the hall.

            ‘John dear, who was –‘ The woman, a tall blonde, comes to a halt and stares at Sherlock, jaw setting heavy. ‘Oh, right.’ She swallows, and turns to John. ‘What is he doing here?’

            John’s smile expands and he places his hands in his back pocket. Without turning from Sherlock, he informs (his girlfriend, anal and strict, a decent cook but can’t play or sing to save her life) the woman – Mary Morstand, Sherlock finds out later – ‘Sherlock will be staying the night, at least.’ Sherlock looks down when he feels John’s hand slide down his arm like a caress.

            ‘John,’ Mary is looking down, cleaning out her nails. Sherlock knows already that he’s not welcome in their home. ‘Can I speak to you for a minute?’

            ‘Of course,’ he nods. ‘Be there in a second.’ Mary looks up and nods curtly before turning back into the kitchen. John turns, smirk still in place, and lifts his chin to Sherlock. ‘By the way, Sherlock, this is for leaving.’ The punch that comes is a welcome surprise to the other surprises Sherlock has encountered tonight. Another thing that should never have been a surprise.

            ‘Welcome back,’ John whispers, standing on his toes to throw an arm around Sherlock and embrace him tightly. Sherlock is still so thrown that he imagines John pressing lips to his cheek.

John knew he was grinning, but he couldn’t have cared less. If the house started falling down around him, John was certain he’d start laughing. Sherlock was back. _Sherlock was back._

And Mary was frowning. ‘Why is he here, John?’

John shrugged. ‘Don’t know, don’t care. Why are you so angry about it?’

Mary gave him a tense look. ‘You’ve just gotten over him, John,’ they both knew this was a lie. ‘Why would you let him back into your life after all the things he’s done to you, John? Using you like a guinea pig, disrespecting your space, pretending to kill himself, basically making you dump every girl you ever dated –‘

‘You knew when we started dating,’ John cracked his knuckles unconsciously. Mary’s eyes didn’t waver. ‘I told you when we first met that Sherlock was a part of my life, come Hell or high rain, and that was something you were going to have to accept.’

‘Yes – in your stories, John, and in your memories. Clearly one of us miscalculated,’ it was meant to be menacing, and to anyone else it might have been; to John, who had been dealing with Mary’s tempers for a while now, it was a clear bid for attention.

But John was quite tired of Mary’s clear bids for attention. ‘Clearly, it was you,’ John says, and walks back into the sitting room, where Sherlock is leaned back in a pose that looked absolutely unnatural. He also had John’s manuscript in hand, and was staring at it the same way he might look through a microscope at a type of synthetic fiber he’d never seen before. That is to say, with the sort of warm affection that normally surrounded his eyes when he looked at John.

‘I see you found my manuscript,’ John blushed.

Sherlock didn’t look up, but the corners of his mouth tilted further up. ‘ _A Study in Scarlet_ , set in the Victorian era.’

‘Yes. And I, er, embellished. A bit.’ John shuffled awkwardly. He hated to ask for Sherlock’s opinion, as it very nearly was always negative. ‘So…what do you think?’

‘It’s interesting. Good way, interesting’ Sherlock clarified, eyes shooting up to meet John’s for only a moment. ‘I assume you based my character in part on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?’

John nodded. ‘He is the grandfather of forensic chemistry, after all.’

John and Sherlock smiled at each other for a few moments. John had felt Sherlock’s re-emergence in his gut, knew it was coming, and yet he worried about that awkwardness would permeate the air they breathed and poison their relationship. But as they sat and talked and laughed (Sherlock described to John in great detail the environs which he visited in his travels, and John told Sherlock of the progression and regression of his own life), John’s fears dissipated, and he wasn’t sure why he’d ever thought there would be a tension between them. The only marks of anxiety were from Sherlock, when John described the deep depression Sherlock’s death put him through. Sherlock’s knuckles visibly whitened.

‘It’s not your fault,’ John breathed.

Sherlock glared shortly at him. ‘Come on John, we both know that isn’t true.’ Both men were leaning toward each other on the couch. John briefly considered leaning closer and kissing him, feeling if his skin was as soft as it looked; but John wasn’t one for cheating and he wasn’t entirely sure his rush of affection for Sherlock was not entirely sentiment formed from Sherlock’s return.

‘I did it for you.’ John could feel the rumble of Sherlock’s words through the fabric of the couch, as it travelled to his upper arms and titillated him. ‘They wanted to kill you, John.’ John had an angry feeling in the pit of his stomach, the feeling like he was about to do something extremely inadvisable. He was being torn toward Sherlock, like the pull of two magnets.

John forced himself away and lifted his manuscript from Sherlock’s lap. ‘I had a feeling it was something like that.’ He stood and deposited his manuscript on his portable writing desk. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes tracing his outline and his brain shorted out. What he felt wasn’t arousal – not yet, but something deeper that felt darker, and something he couldn’t explain. It made his head, stomach and chest hurt.

John felt Sherlock moving to stand beside him and John turned on them quickly. Sherlock’s movements would have been predatory if it wasn’t for the genuine smile on his face.

‘We should go to the kitchen now; I think Mary’s done making dinner.’

            Dinner had been an awkward affair, very tense. Mary had been gripping her fork so hard that she actually bent it. John laughed when it snapped and Mary snarled at him in reply. Sherlock watched it all happily; John might never be his, but maybe one day Mary would get over whatever her weird hostility toward him was, and he could still be a part of John’s life – maybe an extended sort of family.

            To be honest, though, Sherlock only trusted Mary and only liked her about as much as Mary trusted and liked him. She told Sherlock, in a rather curt voice, that he could sleep on the couch. She hadn’t offered any blankets or the like, in fact insisting that she and John didn’t have any to spare; ten minutes after this snark, however, John reappeared with a tattered old blanket that Sherlock recognized as John’s from 221B.

            Over the week Sherlock spent at John and Mary’s, things never got better. Even when Sherlock and John talked one-on-one, Sherlock had a deep sense of something akin to regret. Sherlock felt as though he was invading someone else’s territory. Mycroft had continued paying for his rooms at 221B all the time he was gone (explaining to Mrs Hudson he was keeping it open for John’s sensitivities; Sherlock was sure he’d receive a smack from the landlady once he returned home and uncovered the lie), but any time Mary suggested Sherlock return to unpack his things, John gave her a look mixed with stern resolution and desolate anger, and Sherlock wasn’t able to interpret either of these things.

            He decided, however, to alter his relationship with John, although John seemed put off by Sherlock’s adjustments. Sherlock attempted to talk less with John, stare less at him, and sit farther away. He tried to lower the intensity of their glances and not ask him such trivial things as ‘Could you get my phone? It’s in my coat pocket.’ Sherlock and John had both been told many a time that their relationship was much closer and intense than normal friendships were, and Sherlock figured this was probably the reason everyone assumed them to be in a romantic relationship (aside from Sherlock’s rather obvious and bumbling crush on the doctor). Since Mary had never viewed their relationship first hand, Sherlock decided the intensity of it was frightening her.

            The final straw, however, was when John brought up the subject of cases.

            ‘So,’ he began on Saturday after dinner. ‘Has Lestrade called you yet? They’ve been having some pretty nasty serial murders for several months now, and they still haven’t caught the guy.’

            ‘Yes,’ Sherlock smiled across the room at him brightly. ‘They want me to stop by the morgue tomorrow to examine a body. Care to join me, Doctor Watson?’

            An audible crack came from kitchen, in where Mary was scrubbing plates. (Sherlock noted probable Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but said nothing about it; instead he offered to help her with the plates, and his suggestion was returned with a cold frown.) ‘One moment, please,’ John asked, getting up and walking to the kitchen. Sherlock followed as John walked, not even denying to himself that he was blatantly eavesdropping.

            ‘John, no,’ Mary hissed. ‘I won’t allow you to do this, John!’

            ‘I think you’ll find, Mary, that I am a fully grown adult and don’t exactly require your permission to do anything.’ Normally, John’s voice would have sounded irate or at least irritated, indignant. Instead John sounded tired, and Sherlock wondered how often he and Mary had this conversation, or ones like it.

            ‘This is a madman’s job, John; let the madman deal with it.’ Sherlock heard John breathing heavily through his nose, counting to ten before replying.

            ‘He’s not a madman, Mary. Don’t call him that.’

            ‘Are you really going to choose him over me, John?’

            ‘I’m not going to choose either of you, Mary, so quit trying to make it out like it’s impossible for me to remain friends with him when I’m with you.’ Mary growled under her breath, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock frowned at the ground, trying to deal with the fact that he actually cared if John saw him as a nuisance.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

            That night, John and Mary had sex. Or, to be more slightly more accurate, Mary had sex while John laid there. Sherlock couldn’t hear John participating, although he’d always figured John would be louder in bed (and being a very auditory person, Sherlock had many a satisfying night from the mere thought alone). Yet Sherlock heard Mary’s screams of pleasure ( _over-exaggerated_ , he would have thought, had he been fully awake at the time; _clearly, they’re faked_ ), but it was as though no one else was in the room with her, let alone John (who was, in fact, taking a late night shower, so that he would be ready for work in the morning).

            It was on this night that Sherlock decided, for better or for worse, he was moving back into 221B. Perhaps Mary was right, and John had reached a point in his life where he needed to choose between normalcy – normal job, a wife, children – and the life he and Sherlock led. Mary might not be willing to give up with fight, but Sherlock was rather unused to fighting to begin with and tired of it after his time spent in other countries, tracking down Moriarty’s men.

            _Besides,_ Sherlock thought, heart heavy and mind sluggish, _What hope can I possibly have against her?_


	2. Chapter 2

            Or rather, Sherlock would have been moving back into 221B Baker Street, had it not been for the fact that the building burnt to the ground in the middle of the night. The police blamed it on Mrs Hudson leaving her ‘herbal soothers’ burning while visiting her sister (thank whatever deities Sherlock didn’t believe in but John did that she was alright), but Sherlock didn’t buy it. He tried to prod Lestrade into investigating arson, but Lestrade merely sighed and informed Sherlock that arson was very much not his division.

            John was secretly glad Sherlock wasn’t going to be leaving him, but the secret came out when Sherlock offered to find another place to stay.

            ‘I could live with Mycroft, until I find another place to live.’ He said it as nonchalantly as possible, although he was shuddering on the inside from the simple idea of spending any extended amount of time with his brother.

            ‘Damnit, Sherlock,’ John snapped, slamming his coffee mug on the counter. ‘I’ve only just got you back, you’re not leaving again so soon.’

            Sherlock felt the beginnings of a flush crawling up his face, but tried to ignore it. There was no reason to be excited, John didn’t mean it the way it came out. (But John wasn’t facing Sherlock, or Sherlock would have been able to see the bright blush on John’s face as well. Sherlock was too buys dealing with his own fluster to notice the start of the redness on John’s ears.) Instead Sherlock concentrated on dumping as much sugar into his coffee as possible, and searching around his Mind Palace for a better, less awkward subject on which to converse.

            ‘How will Mary feel about this?’ Sherlock asked, and he felt John freeze.

            ‘Mary will just have to deal with it.’ John finally turned around to grace Sherlock with a cheeky smile, which Sherlock returned in kind.

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            _If this is Mary’s version of ‘dealing with it’,_ Sherlock thought, _then Mary doesn’t deal with things very well._

            Sherlock was not often shocked by other people’s reactions to him. He tended to invoke fear in other people, and annoyance, anger, frustration and, as far as John was concerned, occasional amusement. Sherlock had never, however, seen such unabashed hostility as Mary showed him. When the couple returned from their private conversation in the kitchen (‘Where is he going to stay, John? We can’t have him living in the sitting room for the rest of our lives!’ John sighed, and Sherlock imagined him rubbing a hand – his right one – over his face. ‘We do have a guest bedroom, Mary.’), Mary greeted Sherlock with a glare so intense Sherlock wondered if she wasn’t hoping to shoot lasers from her eyes and kill him. Sherlock often also wondered why John was dating someone so angry and mean, but he didn’t think it polite or safe, really, to ask.

            Mary, Sherlock learned over the week in which he became more comfortably situated in the guest bedroom, was a kindergarten teacher. Sherlock very much could not envision Mary doing any such thing. She was quite intelligent, which should have been a pleasant surprise for Sherlock, but the ways she put her knowledge and considerable observational skills to use were…

            Sherlock couldn’t quite think of the word. She was a bully, at least to Sherlock, and seemed to take pride in humiliating him. She’d noticed his collapsed veins, the tell-tale marks on his arms and said quite loudly once, when John was at work and one of her friends was over, that she didn’t know how a sensible doctor like John remained friends with someone who was so obviously a drug user. Sherlock had been minding his own business, sitting and reading quietly in a chair in between cases and he froze. In his peripheral vision he could see the friend (Asian, pregnant, just under five feet, going blind but won’t get glasses because she’s too vain) look at him in abject disgust.

The friend patted Mary’s hand sympathetically. ‘Your John is just too good a man. I hope he –‘ she jerked her head in Sherlock’s direction, ‘is grateful for his sacrifice.’

‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ Mary heard Sherlock mutter.

After that incident, Sherlock made a mental note to never spend more time than absolutely necessary in the sitting room. If anyone commented, he’d say it was simply too crowded. It wasn’t exactly a lie, as Mary had over-decorated the room with trinkets from various places she’d visited. The room was a sickening pink, like the colour of a liquid antacid Sherlock had once seen in Mycroft’s medicine cabinet. Everything about the room was tacky, and Sherlock couldn’t ever imagine John agreeing to the way the room was done up, let alone spending any time in it.

Playing the part of a dead man for a year and a half, Sherlock was now used to taking up as little space as possible. Going unnoticed meant he had to learn to do without certain things, although minimizing his space did not by any means mean that Sherlock had learned to be less messy or pick up for himself. While he wasn’t quite as flamboyant and exaggerated as he had been at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock did occasionally leave a paper sitting out, a mug in the sink or put a book back in the wrong place. John, when he was actually at home long enough to see it, merely rolled his eyes but didn’t complain. Mary, on the other hand, gave Sherlock another one of those glares he was now trying to put a name to, and considering telling Mary to get a patent on. Whatever Sherlock did, he earned The Glare, even when he was doing something he knew to be nice.

For example, one morning before John left for work, Sherlock noticed Mary was not out of bed and decided to make both himself and John some coffee. John was grateful for it, but just as he and Sherlock started to talk (John was telling him about a particularly annoying and possibly insane patient who insisted the her headaches fell down on her from other places), Mary came out into the kitchen, livid.

‘You have some nerve,’ she hissed at Sherlock.

John blinked in confusion and Sherlock shrugged sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you’d be wanting some, or when you were getting up.’

Mary’s nostrils flared, reminding Sherlock of a dragon he once saw in a picture book. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

‘Well,’ John began calmly, ‘You did sleep in today, Mary. More than normal.’

Mary growled something that Sherlock interpreted as _shut up_ in John’s direction, but when she spoke – though it was still laced with fury – it was no longer a growl. ‘I think Sherlock can speak for himself, John.’

Sherlock had never felt threatened by a woman before, but he had to admit that Mary was intimidating. Not in an Irene Adler sort of way, either; no, Irene was like Sherlock. She enjoyed the chase, enjoyed puzzles and enjoyed having an ability over other people. In her case, it was manipulation. Mary Morstan, on the other hand…

Well, Sherlock couldn’t figure her out.

On Sunday, Sherlock was wrapping up is scarf and preparing to head out when John finally caught up with him.

‘There you are!’ John barked. ‘I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Funny, though, since we live in the same place again.’ Sherlock nodded, but didn’t say anything.

‘So,’ John continued, walking side by side with Sherlock through the door, down the stairs, and across the street. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘Crime scene,’ Sherlock concentrated on putting his gloves on, so John wouldn’t notice the awkward and erratic beating of his heart.

‘Ah, I figured as much.’ John was smiling. Sherlock found it all odd, because he hadn’t seen John smile in a long time. The knowledge that Sherlock was off to a crime scene did not seem like something to be smiling about, but his smile was contagious; Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth turn up in response. ‘Mind if I join you?’ John asked.

Sherlock was about to say yes when he paused, a slight falter in his steps. ‘I thought Mary had issues with me taking you to crime scenes?’

John snorted. ‘It’s not like you’ve ever dragged me, Sherlock; I enjoy accompanying you – as long as I’m not getting in your way,’ he covered.

Sherlock’s smiled increased, now showing teeth. His cheeks were beginning to hurt. He couldn’t ever remember being so happy. ‘Impossible, dear John.’

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            The crime scene had been a particularly gruesome one, although easy to solve. By the end of the day, Sherlock and John had caught the perpetrator, and everything ended in a fight. (During which John was punched both in the face and the stomach. Sherlock estimated he would have a very lovely black eye in the morning.) The two returned to John’s house laughing, and John collapsed on the couch in the sitting room while Sherlock hovered in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

            ‘God,’ John giggled. ‘I haven’t had that much fun in months.’ There was a small moment of silence in which the two beamed at each other. John hadn’t felt the magnetic pull in over a month now, so he decided to ignore the incident; he was simply drawn to Sherlock because Sherlock was – is – his best friend, and he’s missed him so much. However the magnetic pull began again, and he felt the need to lift himself from the couch and meet Sherlock, who’d been drifting slowly into the room, halfway. The idea alone startled and scared John. He’d never felt anything so intense before, and now his heart was beating in such a way that, in other people, he might classify it as an anxiety attack.

            ‘Sherlock?’ a small voice called from the kitchen. Mary, again. ‘May I speak to you in the kitchen for a minute?’

            Sherlock turned quickly away, heading for the kitchen and leaving John hanging in the middle of his crisis precipice.

            Mary was leaning on the counter, a butcher knife in her right hand, the heel of which was digging into the counter. She smiled in false sweetness up at Sherlock, who returned the gesture with a bemused sort of smirk.

            ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she told him. She turned back to the counter to continue cutting up carrots. There was a slight pause in her cutting as she glanced up at Sherlock, trying to determine if he was following her train of thought.

            He wasn’t. At all. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m doing.’

            The attempt at humour failed miserable, although Mary set the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron, turning to face Sherlock. ‘You can’t have him,’ she stated simply. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. ‘John,’ she clarified. ‘You can’t have him. He’s with me now, and I’m not giving him up.’

            Sherlock blinked. ‘Okay, good for you, you’re smarter than his other girlfriends. There’s only one problem, though – I’m not trying to take him away from you.’

            Mary sneered. ‘Don’t play dumb with me, Sherlock Holmes. I see the way you look at him, like he’s the sweetest tart you’ll never taste, the most comfortable bed you’ll never lay in. And you will never do those things,’ Sherlock looked down and noticed the knife was in her hand again, pointing at Sherlock. ‘Do you understand me? John is _mine_. Not yours, _mine_.’

            ‘I rather think you’ll find,’ Sherlock said coldly, ‘that John is his own man, and he’ll do as he pleases.’

            ‘Don’t,’ she let the point of the knife settle on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock looked at it with apathy, while in reality he wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t run him through with it. ‘Drag him to any more of your crime scenes, you sick poofter bastard.’

            Sherlock flinched in surprise at her harsh words. She was no longer sugar-coating them. This was now a blatant threat. ‘I don’t think my sexuality – or rather, what you think my sexuality is – has much of anything to do with my relationship to John.’

            ‘Oh, I think it does,’ Mary whispered, eyes narrowing. ‘Or do you want him to know that you’ve kept one of his jumpers? That you keep it in the back of your closet it and sniff it because it still smells like him, and that you fuck it when you’re alone, wishing it was John you were fucking?’ Sherlock swallowed audibly and wished he hadn’t. Mary was only speculating and to her, this was only a rumour. Back when they’d lived on Baker Street and when Sherlock had been traveling on his own, he did have a sweat of John’s which kept, snuggled into looking ridiculously like an overgrown cat. He did hold it over his naked body and rut against it like an animal, although Mary was wrong about one thing; Sherlock didn’t fantasise about fucking John, rather he thrust his own fingers into himself and pretended, fantasised it was John taking him. And as he was on his own, and it was his own mind he’d never used the term ‘fuck’; it was too violent for what he and John had, but he wasn’t about to let Mary know any of these things. She didn’t see through all of his façade, and that was the way he preferred it.

            Mary smiled and looked more like a cartoon villain than ever Moriarty had. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I see we’ve come to an agreement.

            Now, wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.’


	3. Chapter 3

            Sherlock kept his distance from Mary and, although he knew John was in no hurry to have him leave, began looking for a reasonably-afforded place to live. While Mary hadn’t spoken to him in the two weeks since her threat to expose Sherlock’s attraction, she did send snide, smug looks his way whenever they passed in the hall. She’d been getting more physical about it recently, too, running him into the wall. Sherlock was beginning to develop bruises on his arms from all the doors Mary’s made him run into.

            It was on a Thursday that John knocked softly on Sherlock’s door and entered meekly. Sherlock had never seen him so shy before. He hated it. ‘Hello, John. Can I do something for you?’

            John stopped and blinked, right hand pushing the door back. He tilted his head. ‘Do I need a reason to have a chat with my best friend?’ Sherlock smiled shyly back at him and shook his head. John collapsed on his bed. ‘I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. How have you been?’

            John, with his head on his hands and his feet kicking up in the air, was reminding Sherlock of animations he’d seen of teenage girls at a slumber party. His heart fluttered and his stomach warmed. John lightened the air around him. An affectionate sigh escaped Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop it. He hid it with a cough. ‘Oh, you know, cases.’

            ‘Cases?’ John sat up properly, legs crossed, and frowned at Sherlock. ‘You haven’t let me know about any cases, or Id’ve come with you.’ John looked down at his lap, picking at the well-worn throw on the bed. ‘Or do you not want me coming anymore?’

            Sherlock tried to decide whether it was appropriate or not to tell John about Mary’s threat. Some parts would be embarrassing to talk about, such as the exact nature of what Mary was blackmailing Sherlock with, but he supposed it wasn’t important for John to know every detail. ‘Mary asked me to stop inviting you to crime scenes,’ because that actually wasn’t a lie. ‘It’s not safe, and she doesn’t want you getting hurt.’

            When Sherlock looked back at John, John was staring at him, eyebrows lowering suspiciously. ‘Since when have you ever cared about my well-being?’

            ‘Since always, John. It’s the reason I left. It’s the reason I almost didn’t come back.’

            The silence between them stretched on, and Sherlock was once again confronted with the ridiculous notion that he and John were standing at opposite sides of a great divide, and the space between them grew larger with each time they actually spoke to one another. Sherlock heaved a sigh and sat himself on the arm chair, sitting in a corner of the room. ‘There are some things we need to talk about, John.’

            ‘About your disappearance?’ Sherlock nodded. ‘I know that you left because they were threatening to kill me, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade.’

            ‘Yes, that is correct. Not the entire story, exactly, but it is essentially truthful.’

            Sherlock swallowed the knot in his throat, trying to determine how to continue, what to say and trying to foresee John’s reaction.

He supposed there was no point in not telling him. John would find out sooner or later and now that he had Mary, there was no reason he would still want Sherlock around. Sherlock opened his mouth, but John started speaking before he could get even a word out. ‘You said you almost didn’t come back. Why?’

Sherlock smiled sadly, both grateful for the opportunity and loathing that he no longer had an excuse to prolong his confession. ‘I did not wish to come back because I did not want to cause either you or myself emotional distress. I was certain you’d moved on already, and I was right.’ Sherlock nodded and looked around the room. ‘You have.’

John looked startled. He moved to get off the bed walking toward Sherlock with deliberately cautious steps. ‘Sherlock, I never really –‘

‘Hello, boys,’ Mary drawled. She stood in the door way looking trashy. (There was no other word in Sherlock’s head that would have described how she looked. The shirt, which looked more like a bra, only barely covered her breasts and her skirt looked painted on. Body glitter shimmered from her right cheek to her navel, and her ridiculously high and thing heels had straps that went to her knees.) John and Sherlock both felt ridiculously underdressed comparatively (as John was still in jeans and beaten-up Chuck Taylors, and despite the fact that Sherlock’s shirt cost more than Mary’s entirely leather shoes).

‘Hello, Mary. You look, um.’ John’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, trying to find an appropriate word. Sherlock would have laughed if he’d seen it. As it was, he was too busy trying to deduce what Mary was up to. He didn’t trust her on the best of days, and even less now that she was dressed for a night on the town. Or the street. ‘Are we going somewhere tonight?’ he decided instead.

Mary nodded. ‘Get on your sexiest, we’re meeting some of my friends from work down at this club.’ Mary turned to leave, but back-tracked at the same minute, snake-in-the-garden smile firmly in place. ‘And Sherlock, dear, a mister Victor Trevor sends his love, and says he hopes to see you there tonight.’

When Mary left for good, John turned to Sherlock, bewildered. ‘Who’s Victor Trevor?’

‘An old boyfriend,’ Sherlock said, before he had time to stop himself.

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            John had only very rarely seen Sherlock so nervous, and all of those times except one had involved his mother. (The one exception was when Mrs Hudson was so incredibly furious with him that she threatened eviction. John never did find out what Sherlock had done to piss her off so badly.) Sherlock had also taken Mary’s advice and dressed in the sexiest attire he had, and it made bile rise in John’s stomach to realize he’d never actually seen these clothes before, and he’d thought that he’d seen everything, living with Sherlock for three and a half years.

            Sherlock was wearing what looked like black leather trousers, which fit him so tightly John wasn’t sure where the leather ended and Sherlock’s skin began. John had expecting him to wear the dark purple button down, but instead Sherlock was wearing a blood red v-neck tee shirt that looked to be made out of something much softer than cotton and made him look obscenely like a vampire – and not one from a cheap B-movie either. Sherlock also spent an absurdly long time, John thought, in front of the mirror fixing his hair.

            John didn’t much care for what he was wearing. It was a club, and while clubs had been fun when he was a uni student he was now a grown man, a veteran of war with a bullet wound on his shoulder who was trying to live a normal life.

            Normal. The word made him look down at himself. He’d settled for a cleaner pair of jeans and a slightly tight black tee shirt. He didn’t bother with his hair or anything else because he was hoping to leave Mary with her friends and finish having his talk with Sherlock. Sherlock, it seemed, had other plans.

            John sat on the (frankly uncomfortable) couch in the sitting room and looked around. _What am I doing here?_ he thought. He’d convinced himself earlier in life that this was what he wanted, but in the time he spent with Sherlock he’d had no reason to fool himself that he wanted anything other than the chase, the adrenaline rush, the intellectual work out, and all the other oddities that life with Sherlock provided for him. It was exciting and wonderful, maddening and brilliant, and all other types of clichés he’d both used himself and seen used by others to describe Sherlock. But once more he was sitting here, feeling trapped by the things he should have wanted.

            ‘Have I actually moved on?’ John asked one of Mary’s creepy dolls, perched on a glass end table. He knew that the answer was no, that he was never really going to move on from Sherlock. Mary was just a phase in his life, and not even one he was enjoying much. John let his head fall back and hit the top of the (overstuffed and terribly ugly) couch and wondered, not for the first time, why he was even with Mary. He didn’t love her. He was quite certain she didn’t love him.

            ‘Are you ready, John?’ John had been accused of many things in his life, including lechery and infidelity, but he was actually not a chauvinist and nor did he sleep around. Yet he would have called Mary trashy if he hadn’t been afraid she’d scratch his eyes out. He knew he stayed with her more for the fear of being alone and for the fear of what Mary would do to him if and when he left than because he felt any actual love for her.

            ‘He doesn’t love you, John.’ John didn’t need to look up to know Mary was straddling his lap. She’d tried several times to entice him with sex. At first it had been flattering and at first Mary had been understanding; but the longer they stayed together the more she hinted about what she wanted: sex, a baby, a marriage. ‘He can’t love you, John. You know that. He’s a psychopath.’

            ‘Don’t call him that,’ John snapped, pushing Mary off his lap. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s not a sociopath.’

            Mary turned when she heard Sherlock’s footsteps on the wood floor. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said, leading the way out of the door while Sherlock and John exchanged sad looks.

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            The club was not, all things considered, nearly as bad as John feared it would be. Mary did spend a lot of time dancing with her female friends, attempting to gain John’s attention by dancing rather provocatively with one friend of hers John was almost certain was a lesbian. John was affronted on the lesbian’s behalf.

            He turned to Sherlock, working up the nerve to ask him to return home with John where they could talk in private, but it was no use. Sherlock’s eyes had been scanning the crowd from the moment they stepped in the building and had now fixated on a singular tall individual the curly brown hair, a slight beard and wearing very tight clothing.

            John’s fists clenched. ‘Sherlock,’ the man said, smiling hopefully.

            Sherlock nodded in greeting. ‘Victor. How have you been?’

            Victor batted his eyelashes. ‘Ask me to dance and I’ll let you know.’ When Victor added a wink, John’s stomach protested and bile rose again. He felt invisible and unsure if he should be insulted that Sherlock forgot about him, or just happy he didn’t need to go through some sort of introduction.

            Sherlock took Victor’s hand without thinking and followed him onto the dance floor. John looked sullenly at his drink, thinking that if he was going to be miserable and bored all night, he might as well smashed.

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            Sherlock was completely wasted by the time Victor threw one of Sherlock’s arms around his neck and dragged him to his apartment. Sherlock couldn’t remember much of the night outside of bright, flashing lights and bounding music. But then, he supposed that was rather the point of clubs.

            He let his head fall so that it rested in the crook of Victor’s neck and breathed in cheap aftershave, alcohol, and peanuts. Sherlock’s nose crinkled and wished Victor smelled more like John.

            John. John had been sitting at the table the whole night, scowling while downing shot after shot. Sherlock was worried about him, but didn’t do or say anything. He was distracted by Victor and the drinks he was repeatedly handed. He wasn’t even sure all of them were safe or legal, just that he was fairly certain he’d accidentally told Victor all about his enormous crush on John. Or rather the fact that he was completely and totally head-over-heels (rather stupid cliché, of course your head is above your heels) in love with John. Victor had simply nodded and ground his erection into Sherlock’s hip even harder, apparently not bothered by the fact that Sherlock was wishing he were someone else.

            Victor pulled Sherlock into the flat and up against the wall, kissing him messily. Tongues and saliva (mostly Victor’s) were going everywhere, coating Sherlock’s face and neck as Victor sucked bruises into his pale skin.

            Victor rolled up Sherlock’s tee shirt and sucked a nipple into his mouth, biting down on it until it became hard. Sherlock moaned, but he moaned for John and Victor didn’t bother correcting him. Instead Victor moved his hands down the back of Sherlock’s trousers, slightly disappointed to find that Sherlock hadn’t foregone pants. One finger circled Sherlock’s hole, rubbing gently back and forth before slipping in.

            Sherlock gasped again and Victor smiled, biting his hip. With his free hand, Victor undid Sherlock’s fly and zipper, dragging Sherlock’s cock out of his pants and sucking it into his mouth eagerly, quickly deepthroating him.

            ‘You’re not John,’ Sherlock informed him in a whisper. ‘Victor, you’re not John.’

            ‘I know, baby, but does John appreciate you like I do?’ Victor had stood to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, biting at the skin just behind. He let his hand travel down to his own cock, palming himself and rubbing himself against Sherlock, hand in between their bodies.

            ‘Please don’t, Victor. You’re not John.’

            ‘I know, baby,’ Victor repeated, hands back down on Sherlock’s arse, spreading his cheeks apart. ‘I know. But for you, I could be.’

            ‘No, Victor. Please stop,’ Sherlock pushed away ineffectually, too drunk to really manage his fine motor skills. _Damn alcohol_ , he thought.

            ‘John isn’t ever gonna be yours, baby. But I can make you scream, and I never stopped loving you. You could be all mine, baby.’ Victor continued around Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock continued to try and twist away. ‘Wouldn’t being mine be better than being nobody’s?’

            ‘Unhand my brother, you moron.’ Mycroft couldn’t have looked more threatening if he’d walked in the door holding a gun (and having been a victim of quite a few whacks on the head, Sherlock was well aware that his brolly worked just fine as a weapon). When Victor didn’t move, Mycroft repeated himself, followed with, ‘I do believe he has asked it of you, so don’t give me that look of misplaced contempt. If you go to jail for rape, it will be only your fault.’

            Victor finally let Sherlock go, and Sherlock stumbled into Mycroft, throwing his arms around him. Normally he’d be berating Mycroft for not trusting him and for spying on him but now, he could not be happier for his brother’s abrupt appearance.

            ‘I believe you’re living with John and his girlfriend Mary, now, yes?’ Mycroft asked once he’d gotten Sherlock comfortably situated in the back seat.

            ‘Mmm,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘But don’t take me there, My.’

            Mycroft looked down in mild surprise. ‘Why ever not?’

            Sherlock clenched at the seat as it rumbled over a bump in the road, his eyes shut tight. He growled, ‘Mary.’

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            John was exhausted when he and Mary returned home. John sat on the bed and tried to keep his head from spinning. He’d just gotten his brain sorted out when Mary danced out in a piece of skimpy lingerie and straddled his hips again.

            ‘Mary, please, no. I’m not in the mood.’

            ‘Ugh, God, John,’ she gyrated her hips against his. ‘You’re never in the mood.’

            ‘Well I can’t just make myself get in the mood, Mary. Now get off of me.’

            ‘There’s a pill for that,’ Mary stated, ignoring the last part of his sentence. She nipped at one of his ears, squirming still against his lap. ‘Come on John. Don’t you love me?’

            John glared up through his eyelashes and forced Mary off. She landed on her butt on the floor. ‘You promised me, Mary, to never ask me that.’

            ‘But we’ve been together for a year now, John. You must feel something deeper for me by now, John! Or what has all of this been for?’

            ‘I told you, Mary, that I probably would never be able to love you. You know that and you know why. And what has all of _what_ been for?’

            It was now the type of fights you saw in television shows, where people threw their hands up in exasperation at each other and yelled without even saying anything.

            ‘All of _this_!’ Mary yelled, gesticulating around their bedroom. ‘Fixing you! Repairing you! Taking care of you! Putting all of this effort into you and you won’t even have sex with me? What do I get out of this?’

            John couldn’t remember having ever been as angry as he was now. ‘This isn’t fixing me, Mary. I wasn’t broken,’ he spat. ‘I was alone, I was depressed. I was alone and depressed before I met Sherlock –‘

            ‘Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!’ Mary screeched. ‘That’s all you ever talk about! That’s all you ever think about, John! What about me?’ Mary placed her hands on her chest and walked towards him, not far from begging on her knees.

            ‘I’m sorry, Mary.’ And he really, really was. ‘I thought you knew what you were getting into.’ John headed toward the door, hand on the knob.

            ‘So what?’ Mary shouted. ‘You’re just going to leave me? Leave me for a deranged, poofter sociopath who is never going to be able to –‘

            In the seconds Mary had been speaking, John crossed the bedroom again and slapped her. ‘You don’t know a single thing about Sherlock Holmes’s life, so there’s no way in Hell you could possibly comprehend the depth of his love and loyalty to me. No, Mary, shut your mouth, because I know what you’re going to say. Yes, he faked his death. He did it so that he could save me, because they would have killed me if they knew he was alive.’

            ‘So self-sacrificing,’ she snarled. ‘Why didn’t he just kill himself for real?’

            ‘Because he knew what that would do to me too,’ he replied coldly. ‘And I’d rather have him a liar than really dead.’

            A few seconds of awkward silence passed between them, in which they shared looks of intensity so great they rivalled that of the looks that passed between himself and Sherlock, but lacked the affection and camaraderie he was used to. ‘You’d rather have him than me too, I bet.’ John didn’t respond, finally leaving the room to head for the couch downstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

            John woke up with an uncomfortable stretching feeling in his neck. He’d forgotten that he slept on the couch last night, let alone that he’d slept in the clothes he wore the night before. He tried to turn around, but his elbow was met with a hard suitcase and, because the rest of his body was still disoriented, his legs tumbled off the couch and John landed face-first on lined, scrawled note from Mary.

             _I want you gone by the end of the day!_

            John was entirely certain that the exclamation point was wholly unnecessary, but he didn’t make any further comments. Instead he sighed and picked himself back up. John trudged over to the kitchen in hopes of making himself some coffee, but found that Mary had removed not only all traces of coffee from the house, but all traces of everything caffeinated, everything John liked, and everything John wasn’t allergic to. ‘Mary?’ he called, sincerely hoping she wasn’t home. He was rewarded with blissful – if aggravating – silence.

 _Probably deserve it_  he thought, in disgust, about the coffee. John made his way, still bleary with sleep, to the end table and to his mobile phone so he could call a cab. The phone, however, started ringing when he picked it up.

For the first time, and quite probably the last, John Watson thanked God for Mycroft Holmes.

‘Hello, John. I hope I didn’t wake the Mrs?’

‘We’re not married, Mycroft, and we broke up last night,’ John growled, ‘And I’m sure you’re well aware of that.’

‘Of course I am,’ he hummed cheerfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be needing a car to come and pick up you and your things?’

‘Thank you, Mycroft. That would be lovely.’

John made to hang up the phone when Mycroft began speaking again. John rubbed his head in exasperation. It would be just like one of the Holmes boys to begin talking and just expect John to listen, not even asking for him to wait or stop, just blundering by.  Nonetheless, John held the phone to his ear.

‘Before I send a car out, I need you to be informed of something.

As you are not a stupid man,’ (John snorted here at the slightly backhanded compliment) ‘You must be well aware, by now, of the nature of my little brother’s feelings for you.’

‘This is the talk, isn’t it?’ John stated more than asked.

Mycroft paused. ‘John, I assure you I do not know this “talk” of which you speak.’

‘Oh like Hell you don’t, Mycroft. This is the part where you tell me that if I break his heart you’ll break my knees.’

‘Neck, more likely, Doctor Watson. That is the general idea, yes. You see, I do not wish for you to pretend to return my baby brother’s feelings out of some fear that you’ll hurt his feelings. I am simply alerting you that if you use him for sex –‘

‘Jesus Christ – Mycroft, I would never do that –‘

‘His suicide will be on your neck.’ John pressed his thumbs into his right thumb and forefinger into his eyebrow, hoping to stave off what he was sure would be a spectacular migraine.

‘What makes you think Sherlock even has feelings for me, Mycroft?’

There was another slight pause. ‘Like Sherlock, I cannot really read you. I watch you go on dates with women you do not care about and flirt with people you have no intention of ever seeing again.

My brother is not like that. The only romance he has ever had was with Victor Trevor during university. Victor professed to love him, only to leave him after six weeks for another boy – Sebastian Wilkes – and admit he was only using Sherlock for sex. Victor said he figured Sherlock would be easy, as he was a virgin. How much of this my brother remembers, I do not know; immediately after his and Victor’s rather terrible parting, Sherlock took to cocaine.’

Mycroft took a breath and John understood that it was more to calm himself down than it was for actual need of breathing. John had never felt angrier in his life than he did now, realizing Mycroft was not simply spouting a low opinion of John out of dislike for the man, but rather out of actual care for his brother. Instantaneously, all of Sherlock’s odd behaviours and opinions concerning other people made sense. His hand was trembling again, but not out of his usual psychosomatic symptoms; John’s hands were trembling because he was angry.

‘I apologize if I seem rather harsh. Sherlock likes to pretend as though he does not understand the emotions of others, and as though he does not have emotions himself. This is not, in the least, the case. I must warn you that if you do choose to enter some form of romantic relationship with my brother, he will be extremely possessive of you and demand an inordinate amount of your attention. He will give his entire self to you. His devotion to you will be nearly equal to that of the work. Why he loves you, I do not know; I doubt very much that he understands it either, but I suppose that must mean it is true.’

‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ John quoted lamely.

Mycroft might have nodded, had he and John been in the same room. ‘The world is like that, John Watson. I can no more understand the ways of love than I can understand how both you and Sherlock missed the fact that Morstan is not Mary’s real last name.’

John was pulled out of his fantasy (throwing Sherlock up against a wall and kissing him silly). ‘Wait, what?’

‘The reason – or, I suppose, one of the reasons – Miss Morstan held so much vitriol for Sherlock is that she is the sister of James Moriarty. The two were separated at birth. Morstan is her mother’s maiden name, and as a child she had Mary’s documents changed so that they no longer read “Mary Moriarty.”’

John was left speechless, and although Mycroft didn’t speak John had the feeling that he was being laughed at.

‘Good bye, Doctor Watson. A car will be picking you up in thirty minutes time. I suggest you use that time to determine where you stand with Sherlock.’

There was a click, and the line went dead.

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            Sherlock stood in front of the steps to John and Mary’s house and readjusted his tee shirt. He knew that it wasn’t going to get any better; he’d slept in these clothes and declined borrowing Mycroft’s because he didn’t want to look anymore more like Mycroft than he already had the misfortune to bear with. Sherlock sighed and shook his head at himself; there was no way to further prolong this confrontation. It had to happen sooner or later, and it should probably sooner. (Mary was more likely to be present if he waited until later.)

            He trotted up the last few steps to find himself face-to-face with the front door. He rested his head against the cool glass of it, bracing himself for whatever he would meet inside. He raised his fist up to knock, but when he leaned further onto the door, it opened itself. Whoever had last left hadn’t closed it all the way, but Sherlock hardly cared. Instead he was now more interested in the music coming from the sitting room piano. It started off soft, and then a deeper, slightly darker voice joined in with the melody.

 

_If I fell in love with you,_

_Would you promise to be true_

_And help me understand?_

_Because I’ve been in love before_

_And I found that love was more_

_Than just holding hands_

_If I give my heart to you,_

_I must be sure from the very start_

_That you will love me more than her_

_If I trust in you,_

_Oh please, don’t run and hide –_

 

‘You play beautifully,’ Sherlock blurted out. Feeling sheepish, he walked the rest of the way into the sitting room and found John turned on the piano bench, smiling at him.

‘It’s not as good as your playing, on the violin,’ he countered. ‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve played. I’m surprised I still know how to play.’

‘I’ve heard you humming that song before,’ Sherlock said quietly. He sat down next to John on the bench. ‘Is it one of yours? Did you write it?’

John threw his head back and laughed in a way Sherlock hadn’t seen in years. The sight made his heart flutter and he hoped John couldn’t see it through the thin fabric of his tee shirt. The room was becoming steadily warmer and Sherlock felt the urge to lean into John, to soak up the warmth he was radiating.

‘No, you dolt,’ John said, suppressing giggles poorly. ‘It’s a song by the Beatles.’

Sherlock leaned back slightly so he could give John a confused look with his brows furrowed. Sherlock was imagining tiny bugs with large instruments. While the picture might have been funny to anybody else, it was simply frustrating to Sherlock.

John shook his head. ‘Wow. Once we’re back home, I have a lot to teach you.’ Sherlock was still reveling in the warmth when he realized it was leaving. John was standing up from the piano bench and away, fiddling with two suitcases – one old-fashioned, hard case and another bigger, cloth ones with wheels. Sherlock followed John as John’s words sunk into his brain.

 _Once we’re back home_. ‘But John, you are home.’

John paused what he was doing to tilt his head toward Sherlock, looking at him through his eyelashes. ‘No, Sherlock,’ he said softly. ‘This is Mary’s home, and I don’t belong here. We broke up last night.’

Again, Sherlock tried to hide the fluttering in his chest. He knew that this emotion was called hope, and that it was always, always followed by despair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but didn’t really feel.

John shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s mine, actually. She wanted more from me than I was willing and able to give.’

Sherlock tilted his head and wondered if he had to actually say the words  _Do you want to talk about it?_  to get John to tell him what happened.

He didn’t. ‘She wanted to take care of me, to fix me, after you…left. But she wanted me to love her in return. She wanted me to marry her and start a life with her and completely forget about you. When you came back, she wanted me to stop being friends with you. When I said no…’ He sighed, shaking his head again, looking away from Sherlock bashfully. ‘She wanted to have sex last night. I refused.’

Sherlock blinked several times to hide the words  _Take that, bitch_  from floating in place of his eyes. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘She’s reasonably attractive, you’re heterosexual and from what I’ve seen of your other girlfriends she seems like your type –‘

‘Sexuality doesn’t always work that way, Sherlock. You know that. I just…I can’t have sex with people when we don’t have an emotional connection. I’ve tried and it just doesn’t work. So I wouldn’t say I’m straight, entirely. It’s just that, the emotional connections I’ve formed haven’t been with men. Not for the most part.’

John was looking away from Sherlock as if embarrassed or ashamed, but Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. He thought about it while Mycroft’s men came and helped Sherlock and John pack their things and leave. He thought about it on the drive to Baker Street.

They were back on Baker Street (newly re-modeled, Mrs Hudson would hate it but she’s still at her sister’s), John fetching the milk and Sherlock organizing books on a bookshelf, when Sherlock realised what it was.

 _The emotional connections I’ve formed haven’t been with men._  Oh.  _For the most part._  Oh.  _For the most part._  OH!

The book in Sherlock’s hand went flying as Sherlock flailed, limbs running amok from his body. He was certain he’d started spinning, but wasn’t sure how that was happening when he couldn’t even feel his body moving any more. His entire existence was in his head, in his chest, in his heart.  _John meant me, John meant me, John meant me_.  Sherlock kept turning until his vision went spotty and he fell on the floor.

‘Please be careful Sherlock. We’ve only just got back and I don’t want to be checking you for a –'

John was unable to finish his thought with  _concussion_  because Sherlock had launched himself on John, wrapping both arms and legs around him. John could feel him trying to grab and hold onto his hair, but the strands were too soft and too short. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s neck and said, with no regard to the irrelevancy of the statement, ‘I thought you were going to get milk,’ before kissing John harshly on the mouth.

John drew his hands around Sherlock’s waist to hold him close, pursing his lips more to deflect the feeling of Sherlock’s teeth just beyond his own lips. ‘I’ kiss ‘forgot’ kiss ‘my’ kiss ‘wallet’ kiss.

Sherlock began to squirm against John’s body, losing the grip he had on John’s neck and shoulders. John sniggered against his cheek and took Sherlock by his hips, extracting Sherlock’s body from his own and depositing him on the floor. Sherlock frowned, saddened by the loss of contact until John placed a hand on each of Sherlock cheeks and kissed him softly.

It was sweet and soft, brushing their lips together. It was also far too slow for Sherlock, who had been dreaming about this and fantasizing about this for hours and days and years. Finally,  _finally_ , John took Sherlock’s top lip between his two lips, did the same with his bottom lip, and slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

And oh, he could come from that alone. His hands were flailing again, tracing John’s outline until John grabbed Sherlock’s arms by the wrists and placed Sherlock’s hands on his hips, putting his own hands on Sherlock’s. They were pressed up against a doorframe now, and although it was terribly uncomfortable on Sherlock’s spine it allowed John better leverage to slip his knee and thigh in between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock moaned wantonly, rubbing his cock against John’s thigh.

Sherlock backed up and slammed his head against the dorm frame, covering his mouth with a hand.

‘No, no, Sherlock, don’t do that. This isn’t some sort of secret tryst, and Mrs Hudson isn’t here. So let me hear you.’ John pulled Sherlock’s hand from his mouth and Sherlock let it drop mesmerised as John pushed another closed-mouth kiss against his lips.

Then John dropped to his knees, pulling Sherlock’s trousers down and exposing his silk pants, starting to soak at the front. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand to calm him down before pressing closed lips to the bulge in his pants.

Sherlock’s breathing grew terribly erratic, heart fluttering so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. John let his mouth fall open and his tongue begin to loll out. John licked through the pants at Sherlock’s balls and left open-mouthed kisses along the shaft.

Sherlock groaned again and his head slammed against the doorframe in response. John giggled, standing up. ‘Come on you, let’s get you a pillow.’

It was a good thing that John took his hand, because Sherlock was so blinded by lust he could hardly see in front of him. They had to stop halfway to pull Sherlock’s trousers up because he couldn’t even walk.

They stopped just outside of Sherlock’s door and John asked ‘Do you have anything we’d need?’

Sherlock blinked dumbly, then realized what John was asking. ‘John, John,’ his hands were caressing his face, his hair, his chest. ‘I’m sorry, John.’

John frowned. ‘Sorry about what?’

‘I don't have anything. I don't... I didn't... I haven't...’

John kissed his lips softly. ‘It’s okay. I have condoms and lube in my shaving kit. But Sherlock, you've been tested, right? Is there anything I should know?’

'I'm actually clean, improbable as that may seem,' Sherlock said, blushingly and began kissing soft bites into John's neck, plotting out hickeys; where he wanted everybody to see that Doctor John Hamish Watson was  _his_ , and nobody else’s. John growled low in his throat and drew Sherlock into the room. 'I'm really glad to hear that, Sherlock.'

            They collided into each other and onto a bed, much bigger and softer than the one Sherlock used to have, and resumed kissing as they removed the clothes that didn’t require their lips parting to take off. Soon they were pressed against each other, clothed chest to clothed chest and naked erections sliding against each other. John rolled his hips as his tongue darted in and out of Sherlock’s mouth obscenely. Sherlock continued his whorish groans as John growled, pulling his lips away from Sherlock’s and removing his shirt, snapping his hips harshly when Sherlock began to remove his own, slowly.

            When the shirt was stuck at Sherlock’s elbows and covered his head, John leaned down and bit Sherlock’s right nipple.

            Sherlock’s back arched up off the bed and his moan sounded like a scream, high-pitched and breathy. John took this opportunity to rest his hand just above Sherlock’s arse.

            John moved down the bed, petting Sherlock’s arse as he went. Sherlock looked down at him with bedroom eyes, body unwittingly bucking towards John’s face. John pushed the packet of lube toward Sherlock’s hand wordlessly as he sucked the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

            Sherlock actually screamed this time, fingers twisting in the sheets and neck exposed. His body slid down as his knees bent, toes also curling in the sheets. John slipped his mouth down as far as he could over the shaft and pulled back, repeating the motion and bobbing his head as he grabbed the lube packet and pushed it firmly into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock gasped, finally getting the message and ripping it open, applying some of the lubrication onto his fingers. He knew what to do, but only just; he and Victor had broken up just before attempting anal sex. Perhaps it was because Sherlock said no that Victor broke up with him…

            All thoughts of Victor were erased from Sherlock’s mind as John sucked particularly hard and fondled his balls, sliding his tongue up the shaft to suck at the head of his cock again. Sherlock closed his eyes, took a steadying deep breath, and inserted his fingers into himself.

            He started with too many and had to remove two; but again, he’d never done this before and he wanted to get the preparation over with as quickly as possible (even with the wonderful feeling of John pressing kisses to his penis, oh god, he was going to come if John didn’t stop, playing with the foreskin now -).

            John pressed a last kiss to the head and groaned at the vision of Sherlock pressing his own fingers into himself. John crawled up to the top of the bed, kissing Sherlock’s forehead and cheeks as he went, and pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder as he grabbed a pillow, lifted Sherlock’s hips and placed the pillow under them. John applied one of his own fingers next to Sherlock’s inside his body. ‘God, you’re so tight,’ he whispered. Sherlock groaned in exasperation, sticking another finger in and slamming himself down on the three. John used a free hand to push back Sherlock’s hair and kiss his forehead again. ‘Shh, that’s not a bad thing. Just need to be a little looser, a little more relaxed. I don’t want to hurt you.’

            John turned Sherlock’s face so he could kiss him and calm him down. Sherlock sighed into the kiss, leaning in and running his tongue over John’s lips. More relaxed now, John moved his fingers with Sherlock’s inside his hole, bumping over his prostate.

            Sherlock broke the kiss and howled. John smiled into Sherlock's neck, kissing and sucking gently as he continued to work his fingers, stretching Sherlock and massaging his prostate. When Sherlock's moans and groans became incoherent panting, John removed his fingers and pulled the condom over his cock, picking up what was left of the lubricant package and spread it on his fingers, slicking his cock quickly. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s soft belly. 'You alright, love?' John asked, searching Sherlock's face as he pressed up against his hole.

'Yes! Yes, please, John,' Sherlock panted as he wrapped his legs around John’s waist and tried to pull him in. John nudged his cockhead through the tight ring and slowly, as Sherlock relaxed, sank deeper and deeper, until his penis was completely engulfed in that tight heat. Sherlock moaned and squirmed against him, attempting to make the cock hit his prostate. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips to hold him still and pulled out slightly before rocking back in. Sherlock moaned, a deep guttural sound that John felt in his cock. He leaned close to Sherlock’s right ear and whispered ‘God, I love you so much, do you know?’

            Sherlock seemed unable to talk and so nodded instead, pushing his forehead against John’s and kissing him, sparks flying behind his closed eyes from all the points of connection: his arms around John’s neck, John’s hands on his hip, their mouths and tongues touching as Sherlock’s legs sat lazily now at John’s ribcage as the snaps of John’s hips began to pick up speed and pound into Sherlock’s body.

            ‘I love the way you take everything so seriously, even when nobody else believes it. Like with Henry Knight.’ Sherlock whimpered in response. John’s cock nudged against his prostate with each stroke. ‘And the way you try to teach me how to do what you do, like I’m actually worth your time.’

            ‘You  _are_  – unghhh –‘ Sherlock moaned against his lips. John’s left hand drifted from Sherlock’s hip to the bed, grabbing on for support. He lifted Sherlock’s hips up onto his knees and his cock sank further into Sherlock, making both of them groan. John set up a furious rhythm and Sherlock was moaning loudly enough that, John thought, were Mrs Hudson home, she would have heard it clearly. (She was and she did. She blushed horribly as she heard Sherlock yelp ‘Oh, God, John, yes! Yes!  _Yes!_ There! God, harder! John! Fuck!  _John!_ ’ with such startling clarity that she feared they were fucking on the stairs next to her door. She climbed out of a back window so she wouldn’t have to see, just in case.)

            Sherlock’s body began to clamp down on John’s cock as he neared orgasm, pushing John almost to the edge. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and he arched up, fucking his body down onto John’s penis, then up into his fist. Sherlock came with a shout, spurts of come hitting John’s chin which sent John over the edge, pulsing into Sherlock as the aftershocks continued to stroke his cock.  Rocking together, murmuring happy sounds, John slowly withdrew and kissed Sherlock’s chest.

 

‘I’ll be right back, love. Just need to clean us up –‘

            When Sherlock could see again, he opened his eyes. Everything seemed brighter and more intense; he was starving, he was exhausted, and he felt so filled with love his mind was imploding. Sherlock sighed. It was perfect.

            John disposed of the condom, cleaned them both off and pulled the sheets back so he could settle in, his front to Sherlock’s side. ‘You okay, love?’

            ‘Love…’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Please, don’t ever not call me that.’

            John blinked. ‘That’s a little too convoluted a sentence for me to figure out right now, love.’

            Sherlock turned and laid a hand on his cheek. He crawled closer and kissed him, lips pursed to avoid the bruises where they’d bitten each other. He hadn’t even noticed.

            ‘Never said it, but I mean it. I love you, love you, love you.’

            John nodded and smiled, running a hand up and down Sherlock’s back. He kissed Sherlock’s nose. ‘I’m yours, you’re mine.’

            ‘Forever,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘Nobody else can have you.’

            ‘Nor nobody you.’

            They were silent for a few moments before Sherlock, despite the overwhelming exhaustion, began to squirm.

            ‘John?’

            ‘Yes, love?’

            ‘I need to pee.’

 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

            Life at Baker Street changed, and it didn't. John introduced Sherlock to the Beatles and Motown. Cases were plentiful, John switched surgeries. A lot of their time together was spent cuddling and kissing – not that they didn’t enjoy sex, but it wasn’t necessary for every day and simply wasn’t possible when a case was on (and after one particularly painful venture, when one of them was seriously injured; as in, had a broken limb). Mrs Hudson now warned everybody to knock before entering, and no matter  how hard John and Sherlock tried to convince her that it simply wasn’t necessary (and that they weren’t having sex in the stairway that first time) she remained convinced that it was still a necessity.

            Mycroft was still confused, even more so when Inspector Lestrade asked him for a date.

            ‘What do I do?’ he hissed at John over the phone.

            John was beginning to lose feeling in his harm because Sherlock was using him as a pillow. He really had no desire to continue this ridiculous conversation. ‘You accept, Mycroft,’ he told him, and he hung up.

            About three months later, when Sherlock gained a sudden interest in their future (‘I’d like to keep bees when we retire,’ he informed John one day, playing with his hands. ‘Mm?’ asked John, reading a book and not fully paying attention. He set the book down. ‘We’re going to retire?’ ‘Of course,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘It won’t be practical or safe after we have children.’ ‘…Sherlock, we can’t have children, we’re men.’ Sherlock looked back and kissed him on the chin. ‘We can adopt, though. I’m just pleased you didn’t say “no”.’ ‘Why would I say “no”?’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘You might not always want me.’ John sighed and said, ‘Allow me to demonstrate how terribly wrong that idea is,’ and that was the end of the verbal conversation), they received a wedding invitation in the mail.

            ‘Well, Mycroft and Greg are moving fast,’ John laughed, but Sherlock’s face paled.

            ‘It’s not for them. It’s for…Victor and Mary…actually.’

            He and John exchanged horrified looks before John said ‘Oh, Hell no,’ and that was the last time they ever thought about Victor and Mary – let alone the two of them together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to Britpicking and Beta'ing: My beta was busy because, believe it or not, some people work for a living. So nobody beta'd this fic, and there are mistakes. I didn't bother to go back and fix them. Why? Well, for one, the person I wrote it for enjoyed it, and for another I'm not getting graded. It's fanfiction, not an essay on the sexuality of Desdemona in Shakespeare's _Othello_.
> 
> (edit: Britpicked as best I missed things please let me know. Thanks ~snog) 
> 
> In regards to inaccurate portrayals of sex: Yes, there is a continuity error. Apologies. We didn't learn about anal sex, oral sex or birth control in sex ed so my knowledge is incredibly lacking. We barely even spoke about sex. We got pretty much the same speech as the students are given in _Mean Girls_ : Don't have sex or you will get pregnant and die. Oh, the wonderful world of sex education. Furthermore, I am not a man, let alone a gay one. In fact I am a celibate virgin asexual female, so obviously my portrayals of man-on-man sex are going to be horribly inaccurate. Why don't I watch porn? Because I need this computer for school.
> 
> (edit: ok. Smut should be straight now re: continuity error. Any errors remaining, please let me know as kindly as possible as I don't have a penis or prostate. Thanks! ~snog)


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